Breathe
by LittleBritainFanatic
Summary: Richie is sent to Camp Green Lake for manslaughter, but finds his anxiety getting worse. Can his fellow campers help where his doctors failed? Preview: "Just breathe, Richie." Mum used to tell me, so I tried to, but I couldn't get the image of his body out of my mind.
1. Chapter 1

It wasn't my fault. That was what I told my lawyer, the judge, and, most importantly, my family. But only the latter believed me. I was originally tried for murder, but we managed to get the charge down to manslaughter - which it was.

Of course, the judge never took my mental health into account; acute anxiety, paranoia, depression and two weeks in a mental hospital clearly wasn't enough for me to plead insanity. I felt insane after the incident, though.

It really was an accident. I'd stayed behind after school to go to soccer club - I hate soccer but Dad makes me go, to toughen me up - so had to walk home. Being the paranoid person I am, I was incredibly jumpy, aware of everything around me and avoiding anything that could possibly be a threat. But when it started to rain, I made such a stupid mistake - I ran down an alleyway, a well known, but rarely used, short cut that would get me home a lot quicker. I ran, heart pounding, mind wiring, fingers tingling with adrenaline and fear, glancing around nervously. Suddenly slamming into a wall, I was thrown to the ground, and found a man leaning over me. Before I could speak, he was slashing my bag and pockets open with a knife, searching for any valuables. Kicking furiously, screaming at the top of my voice, my foot managed to connect with his balls, the force of the kick throwing him backwards. I scrabbled to my feet, now having palpitations, nursing a bruise on my cheek, and tried to run, but he grabbed the back of my jacket, preventing any chance of escape. My ears were ringing badly, so I never heard what he said, but he drew a gun from his pocket, aiming it straight at my head. My fear exploded, and I hurtled myself straight at him, slamming into his chest. He toppled backwards, his head cracking against the bricks, and then slumped to the ground, unconscious.

So it was self defence. I never meant to kill him. I mean, I was the one who did the first aid, and called the ambulance. But the police came too, and arrested me. Which was how I ended up in court. The judge knew I hadn't meant to kill him - but the story was twisted, because, from what the forensic scientists worked out, it ended up with me having had attacked him. This infuriated me, I mean, it was bad enough having killed someone, but I wanted everyone to know it was only to stop myself getting murdered. It was clear they thought I was a psycho.

But regardless of what they thought of me, the sentence was the same:

"Richard Edwards, you are sentenced to three years in jail for manslaughter." The judge said.

I couldn't go to jail - I just couldn't. Someone like me would get killed - literally - in jail. I pleaded with him, feeling close to tears, hyperventilating again, and,

"Well, there is an opening at Camp Green Lake."

I sighed with relief. Glancing at Dad, he smiled at me, and I agreed, thinking that anything was better than jail. But it turned out that Camp Green Lake, although different, was going to be just as intense as jail, especially for someone like me...


	2. Chapter 2

I leaned my head against the window, staring out into the barren desert. I'd been on this bus for over eight hours now, and was getting very, very bored. It was unbearably hot, ans my thick hair was sticking to my forehead, whilst huge droplets of sweat ran down my back. But I barely noticed, for I was so scared. My heart pounded, and my breathing was ragged and shallow. I hated being so nervous all the time, but leaving home and bring sent into the middle of nowhere was defiantly something to be worried about.

I looked over at the intimidating, silent guard, wincing at the sight of his rifle. If it had done nothing else, my encounter with the mugger had certainly given me a fear of guns. He hadn't said a word to me, except "Give me your hand." when he handcuffed me to the seat in front, and I didn't fancy talking to him now, because I bet the heat had made him even grumpier.

Sighing, but quietly, so I didn't get yelled at by the guard, I returned my gaze to the window - and gasped. As far as I could see in every direction, there were thousands, and thousands of circular holes. What the hell? And then it hit me - did the boys have to dig holes as their punishment? As I thought about this, I started to hyperventilate, the all too familiar feeling of doom in the back of my mind, and felt my hands begin to tingle.

Whenever I started to panic, Mom always used to tell me to breathe deeply and slowly, and she always managed to calm me down. So I tried her technique, imagining her soothing me, telling me to breathe, and finally managed to slow down my raid heartbeat.

Hugging my rucksack to my chest, I caught sight of seven boys, all wearing dusty orange jumpsuits, digging a hole each. They all looked up at the bus as we passed, and, although I couldn't hear them, they appeared to be shouting at me - and I don't think they were being friendly. They looked so tough - I was going to be eaten alive.

After a few more minutes, we pulled up at the compound, and the driver, who, so far, had also kept quiet, said, "Welcome to Camp Green Lake." I looked around, but it was a waste of time - there wasn't a lake in sight, and it certainly wasn't green. After the guard unlocked my handcuffs - it felt amazing to get me numb arm moving again - he led me off of the bus. Stepping onto the sun baked dirt, I heard the driver say, "Be careful.". I wondered if he meant to be careful at the camp, which, if he did, was sensible advice. Not wanting to look at my prison, I kept my head down, only looking up as we reached a small building, which had a sign on the front: YOU ARE ENTERING CAMP GREEN LAKE JUVENILE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY. I inwardly chuckled at the stupid notice beside it that told me what wasn't allowed on site.

I was led inside, gasping with relief as the air conditioning hit me like a club. A man, wearing sunglasses and a cowboy hat, has slumped in his seat, feet on the table. He didn't look very friendly. I stood silently, biting my fingernails - Mom hated this habit, but I couldn't help it - as the man spoke to my guard, discussing the man's consumption of sunflower seeds as a substitute for cigarettes, before he handed the guard a drink from his fridge. After the guard left, the man came around the front of his desk, and stared straight at me. I gulped.

"My name is Mr Sir." He said with his thick Texan voice. I suppressed a snort at the sound of the obviously fake name. "whenever you speak to me yu must call me by my name, is that clear?"

I nodded, but he gave me such a look that I mumbled, "Yes, Mr Sir." in response.

"You're not in the Girl Scouts anymore." Mr Sir informed me, and I knew, if I was brave enough, I would have argued back.

He then made me remove my clothes, before giving me two sets of clothes and a towel. I pulled on one set of clothes, which consisted of an orange jumpsuit, a orange T-shirt and a pair of yellow socks. I then pulled on the white trainers he also gave me, and put the orange cap on my head. As I dressed, Mr Sir told me that one set of clothes was for work and one was for relaxation, so when the laundry was done every three days, the work set would be washed, and the relaxation set would become my new work clothes. But what he told me after that made me panic again,

"You are to dig one hole each day, including Saturdays and Sundays. Each hole must be five feet deep, and five feet across in every direction. Your shovel is your measuring stick."

_Breathe,_ I told myself, _Just breathe, you'll survive._ Mr Sir went on to tell me breakfast was served at four thirty, which was so we could dig at the coolest time of day. This made sense, but then he said something that sounded very suspicious to me,

"If you dig up anything interesting, you are to report it to me or any other councillor." Why did he say that? Were we meant to be looking for something?

He then took my rucksack off of me and checked it. He opened my first aid kit, and raised his eyebrows. I always carried my first aid kit, because I wanted to be a doctor. My scissors and tweezers were confiscated, but I was allowed to keep everything else, which was a relief. Mr Sir then took me back outside into the disgusting heat.

"Fresh meat!" Someone yelled, and I tensed up. _Breathe, Richie, breathe._

"Take a look around you." Mr Sir said, "What do you see?"

Looking around, I, truthfully couldn't see anything but tents and dust, so I shrugged.

"You see any guard towers? How about an electric fence? There's no fence at all, is there?" I shook my head after each question. He told me that he wouldn't stop me if I did escape, because they had the only water for a hundred miles, so I'd die if I ran for it. "You thirsty?" He asked.

I was, but knew he wasn't going to give me any, so I didn't respond. Even so, he still said, "Well, you'd better get used to it. You're gonna be thirsty for the next three years."

I shuddered as the realisation that I was stuck here for so long finally hit me, and, no matter how many times I told myself to breathe, I couldn't calm down.


End file.
